Snow falling softly on lashes of eyes you love, and a cold cheek growing warm next to your own in hushed dark familial December.

However, if a poem can be reduced to a prose sentence, there can't be much to it.

I do not usually revise much, though I often cut, particularly the end or toward the end of a poem

It seems to me that readers sometimes make the genesis of a poem more mysterious than it is (by that I perhaps mean, think of it as something outside their own experience)

Looking at the sky last night and the moon in the first fresh dark, just a few stars, bright with their cold flares, I had a little crumpled thought, 'Oh well, the moon. It's just another place like California.' One's imagination drags its feet as we are inexorably hauled into the future.

What are the questions you wish to ask?

A nothing day full of wild beauty .... Little fish stream by, a river in water.